Young Zimbabwean Literary Delegate to the Goteborg International Book Fair Sweden (2003 presented at Nordic Africa institute, Swedish Writers union, SIDA Diplomatic luncheon , Radio Dialogue , Swedish International library Association , Sweden National Education Summit).Jury Member of the International Images Film Festival (2013-2014). Artist in Residence of the Shungunamutitima International Film Festival (2015).

Poet in residence of ICACD International Conference of Africa Culture and Development courtesy of African Culture Development Institute (2009) . Participant of UNESCO Photo Novel Intensive Training( Tanzania and France 2009).Founder of the GirlchildCreativity Project ( 2010) The African Drums Poetry Festival ( 2007).The Young Writers Caravan( 2004) Curator of MIOMBOPUBLISHING, miombopublishing.wordpress.com and PERSONALITIES OF INSPIRATION,

Kalinga- linga

A daughter of revolution fed on rich political nutritionWith a smile bandaging scars of the streets and falsehood by political demonsFingers burnt in pseudo democratic pans of the West, what a political humorI see you smelling love through the thick dew of corruption and robotsTrue heroes and heroines swallowed up in the deep silence of chingwere and uzambwera

Black Oranges

Xenophobia my soni hear a murmur in the streetsa babble of adjoining marketsyour conscience itching with guiltiness likegenital leprosyyour wide eyes are cups where tearsnever fallwhen they fall the storm wash down bullet drainsand garbage citiescome nomzano with your whisper to drown, blood scent stinking the rainbow altardarfur, petals of blood spreading, perfume of death choking slum nostrilsslums laden with acrid smell of mud anddebri smelling like fresh dung heapsfear scrawling like lizards on Darfur skinkibera, i see you scratching your mind like ragged linensmelling the breath of slums and diesel fumesthe smoke puffing out through ghetto ruins is the fire dousing theemblem of the statebelly of Zambezi ache with crocodile and fishvillages piled like heaps of potatoes against the flankof eastern hillsfarmlands dripping golden dripping dewsunshine choking with vulgar morningsdawns yawning with vendetta filled redemption songsdrums of freedom sounding fainter and fainter, blowing away in the windwhen streets rub their sleep out of their eyesvillagers scratch painful living from theinfertile patches of sand on this earth whose lungsheave with copper and veins bleeding goldghetto buttocks sit over poverty, kalinga-lingacorruption eating breakfast with ministers, kabulongawith shrill cries of children breaking against city wallsshire river tonight your voice rustled dry, like the scratching of old silkPoliticians grow everywhere like weedsland of ngwazi, yesterday crocodiles breakfasted on fleshowls and birds sang with designated protocolngwazi your cough drowned laughters and prayersyour breath silenced rivers and junglesMozambiquethe belief and gift of my poetrysweat wine poured to absent, long forgotten gods and goddessessoft kiss spent on golden virgins before they aged into toothless granniesthe rhythm of samoraheartbeat of chimurengadrumbeat of chissanotoday mornings blight in corruptiona social anorexiaAbuja guns eat you more than diseaseI loved you before you absorbed poverty as spongesoaking out waterbefore rats chewed your roofbefore you conceived men with borrowed names and totemsghost of abacha guzzling drums of blood and gallons of oilwiwa chasing shadows of babangida past delta of treasuresBuganda cruelty is a natural weapon of a dictatorpoor lives buried under rubbles of autocracypregnant mothers with eyes gouged out by bullets, pushing their gutsback into their belliesluandaa roar of old trucksa whine of motor cyclesa rumble of dead enginesAmerica frying its fingers in oil pans of your kitchenwhere Europe fry, America roastAngola, if you cough, America catch a feverangola quench my parched lungs with a spoon of oili see the naked thighs of your desert hillsBarotseland Setswanaa servant positioned with trustAmerican green bloomed your desert shrubsyour loyalty is sold to she who offers the next mealBarotseland of seretseSomaliayour lips burnt brown with exposure of rough dietyou are muffled voice, cursed and drowned into deep silencethe smell of aged incense and stale coffeea tune piped by the shepherd on moutainside, onlyto be half heard by and quickly forgotten by villagersGhanathe anthill of black seedcoast blessed with goldonce a young girl full of sap and strengthonce perfumed with richness and sacrednessyou shared your salt and sweat fro freedomtoday you a like a woman who sleep with a pillowbetween her legs anticipating a miracle of mancoast of ivoryi see faces tight as skin of drum in moonlightivory coast, once the smoke and smell of human excitementtonight bullet burrow into your belly like rats into sacksof Thai riceyou are the broken pot we patch to put on shelf again.flesh of children roasting in your belly, Darfur.

Dawn Rising

see many voices rising with the sunsharp spears of the sun, undulating with coming freedommother was there during liberationi will be there for the other liberationa revolution of million voicesvoices of children of songchildren of the soilchildren unborn, children born

voices of hunger in the guttersvoices in memory of those gone by the wind of madnessvoices of vendors whose tomatoes squashed in days raidsvoices whose taxes perished on talk tablesvoices riddled by sanctionsvoices roasted by imperialism

one million voicesfrom a country whose spirit is chimurengawhose breath is nehandawhose scent is the mist of matoposvoices of freedom comingvoices tired of honey coated promises

I am a night mareMy breasts are dry of milk in the climate of this heatMy earth ejaculates platinum and uraniumanus of my rock puff pure gas and crude oilThe clay of my heart binds together the dust of my dreamsForests of my mind sagging with coco beans and coconuts

I am tired of bullet and paparazzi gossipI am a country eating peanut and bananasI am the flower of want, whose bloom was pruned by madness,Whose holy nectar was imbibed by mad drunkards?I am a night mare, poets and prophets bring back my wildness

I am Congo 11

I am Congo, with my cough riddled voiceI am Congo i see my children bewitched by the wizard of NileI am Congo whose clans are foot mats of war gods and goddesses from the east and the westIam Congo with emerald in my blood and diamond in my stomachI drink my tears with triplets’ kayole, kwangware and kiberia,We ate our stolen coco beans withIvory Coast and gold coastWhen will chairman Mao, Samora,Neto amilcar of this earth of stolen diamonds and driedPeanuts, that we write our history in blood, sand and graniteShaping the ideology of generations and the dreams that we eat the eggs of uhuruAnd see the dimples of freedom smiling.